Met on the Twelve
by bluesockss
Summary: It's the anniversary of Fred Weasley's death and this is a story told from the point of view of the person it affected the most.


He lay there, staring up at the beams on the ceilings. Not blinking. Hardly breathing. It hurt him to breathe. It hurt him to think. Everything he did just made it worse. He couldn't help himself, he couldn't heal himself, and no-one could heal him, except for one person. It felt as if the walls were closing in on him, everything was getting smaller. The air was thickening, becoming more difficult to breathe. He prayed the walls would close in, that they would suck him up into a year ago, when everything was normal. He wished for a lot of things, everyone did, but no-one quite like his prayers.

The warm purple evening sky outside his window gradually faded to inky blackness. There were no stars, but one. He knew what that star was, who that star was. As the sky darkened it got colder, beads of condensation dripping down the glass like the tear that had many times rolled down his cheek. He could see his breath in front of him like a whispy, white ghost quickly fading away into nothingness. His face burning, eyes burning a fire within his heart he continued staring at the ceiling.

_Not long now_ he thought. He could hear his own heart beating like someone was trapped inside trying to escape. Gently he turned his wrist and looked at his watch – five minutes. Running his fingers through his hair he sat up and opened the drawer next to him. He took out three things, the first was an envelope made of parchment and smudged writing on the front. The second thing was a candle in a glass container, the wax was red and smelt sweet and like jasmine. The third thing was not entirely recognisable in the dark but it was long and thin and slightly crooked.

_Tick-tock, tick-tock. _The minute hand and the hour hand met on the twelve. He stood up and unsteadily walked to the door, down the stairs and out the front. He disappeared into no-where, just like that, appearing moments later in a long high-ceilinged corridor. There was a crimson carped laid out on the stone floor. It stretched on forever until it eventually went round a corner. Still carrying the three items he went down the corridor, his footsteps echoing off the walls. He was earlier than all the others; he arrived at the first minute of the day and wouldn't leave until the last.

He stopped walking and turned to face the wall, where he knelt down and placed the items on the floor in front of him. Gazing at the golden plaque before him through tear filled eyes he slowly lifted his finger, running it over the engraved words. It was the first time he'd been here but he knew what it said. Leaning over he picked up the crooked thing and pointed it at the candle, on which a glowing orange flame appeared. He knelt there watching the wax trickle down the side of the candle as it gradually melted away.

Little by little more people began to arrive each going to a certain part down the corridor and many lighting candles or carrying flowers. He sat there listening to the silence that filled his mind. Still he sat there as more people arrived and more people left. He inhaled the scent of the jasmine and tried not to let go. The candle was considerably smaller that when he first lit it. For hours he was there in stillness, not a cough, not a cry. Soon most of the people had left and eventually the last went; a little boy about two years old with bubble-gum pink hair and a grandmother.

He waited until they had left and then he picked up the envelope. Carefully he opened it and took out the parchment within, he laid it on the floor and smoothed it out. The candle illuminated the words, in tear-smudged, scrawny handwriting. It read:

_Dear Fred,_

_When I breathe its painful so it's killing me every time I think about you. The tears hurt, my bleeding heart hurts, my stomach is always upside down and the memories are all I have left – they are hurting me. But I don't want memories, I want you to be next to me. Are you next to me? Are you looking over my shoulder as my tears smudge the ink whilst I'm writing this letter. They say it gets easier… but it's not true! Every time I blink my eyes burn, but I can't cry, I'm kicking and screaming inside but I can't find the energy to actually kick and scream. Ron's helping with the joke shop, but it's just not the same, business is good, but it's just not the same, I try to smile to keep a happy face, but it's just not the same. Are you still the same Fred? Gred and Forge? Forever? I'll never forget you, you were my brother, my twin, my best mate, the one person who knew me inside out, who knew me better than anyone, better than I even knew myself. I don't know myself at all anymore Freddie. I can't conjure a patronus, every happy memory I ever had was with you buddy. I still crack jokes but there's no magic in it, I don't feel anything, only the ghost of you. Are you alright? Are you happy? Each time I close my eyes I see you lying there, you're smiling, I don't know what about, I wish I did. Every time I cover my ears I can hear screams and crying from that day. I want you to know that you did not leave us in vain. Harry beat Voldemort and the world is a better place now, but there's not as much laughter since you left. I want you to know that everybody here misses you like crazy, there's an empty chair at the dinner table next to me and it's just not right. Nothing is right. I want you to know that you were brave, valiant, you were a hero, everyone says so, everyone knows so. Do you know that? How much you mean to everybody? You were everything a person should be, kind, clever, courageous and funny. I admit it now mate, you were the better looking twin. I hope you know that I love you. Because every day I see your face just by looking in the mirror and every day I hear your voice just by using my own and I ask myself; why you instead of me?_

_Love your brother, your twin, your best mate,_

_George x_

It was only now that he let a tear squeeze from his eye, quenching the flame on the candle and making everything dark. He picked up the crooked thing and a ball of light appeared at the end of it. He folded up the parchment and slid it back into the envelope, tucking it behind the golden plaque on the wall. He felt the engraved letters with his finger and he thought about every letter, carved in elegant writing onto a plaque of pure gold. Frederick Gideon Weasley. May he rest in peace and always be among us. April 1, 1978 - May 2, 1998. He took is finger away from the figure eight and pushed himself up, the blood rushing back into his legs.

'Goodnight buddy.' He whispered before he disappeared as the minute hand and the hour hand met on the twelve.


End file.
